Cruddy - Lynda Barry [18]
Chapter 10
H ’BERTA, oh little ’Berta,can’t you hear me calling you?” The Turtle was singing and his voice was decent. Sometimes high and sometimes hoarse.
The Turtle said, “Would you ladies like to join me in New Orleans? Would you like to experience the malodor of the sad drunk’s urine in Pirate’s Alley? Would you care to gaze upon the House of the Rising Sun? The Great Wesley and I are planning a trip and you would be most welcome. We have nearly everything we need. We have a car and it is quite a car. But we lack a driver.”
Vicky scratched at her eyebrow. “Who’s the Great Wesley?”
I said, “I can drive.”
“Stick?” asked the Turtle.
“Yes.”
“Yesssssssss,” said Vicky Talluso. “Roberta tells another lie.”
“I’ve been driving since I was eleven,” I said.
“Leprosy of the face comes from lying,” said Vicky. “You get leprosy and then your nose falls off.”
We were on the embankment beside the reservoir, leaning and pushing our faces into a high Cyclone fence with our fingers on the chain link. We were there to watch the high jets of water shoot out of the Jefferson Park Reservoir. Water must be kept in motion or the result is stagnation. For creatures it’s blood that must be kept in motion or there is putrefaction. I mentioned this. Vicky stared at me. The Turtle nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Absolutely. Even in the achievement of ataraxy there must be motion.” Vicky stared at him. She was squinting.
The Turtle said, “Leprosy of the face is totally misunderstood. It is not nearly as bad as people think. Leprosy of the mind, however, is a disaster.”
In the distance I heard the three o’clock bell. School was over. It was time to return to East Crawford. To the mother and my life there. To Julie, the evil half-daughter of the crumbling mummy called Dr. Cush, who made no provision for her when he croaked. Who left her nothing, not a Band-Aid, not even a hair ball.
It was different for me. The father left me a fortune. Getting to it was my problem. I knew the way, but I needed transportation. I was tired of the current version of my life. The mother and I, we had serious mental problems with each other but it was her who had the knives. Who screamed that she could cut my throat and Julie’s throat and her own throat and who could stop her from doing it? Who? Who in this world?
I do believe that if she got in the right mood she could slit my throat with no problem. And I think she could do Julie. But I’m pretty sure that when it came to doing herself she’d run out of gas. I mentioned all of this to Vicky and the Turtle and Vicky’s eyes went round.
“A fortune?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Yessssss,” she said. “What kind of fortune? Are you lying? Because if you are lying I am going to get very violent. I get extremely violent when people lie to me. Is it money?”
“Cash money,” I said. “Three suitcases full.”
Vicky snorted but kept her eyes on me. The Turtle didn’t say anything. His thick white eyelashes didn’t even flutter.
I watched the motion of the shooting water, shooting high and white, then gone, then rising again. It’s called pulsing. It happens because of the differences in pressure. Blood shoots for the same reason. You would be surprised by how it can spray. Blood can hit the ceiling and drip back down on you. But usually blood on the ceiling and the walls is secondary. It is from the knife or the ax in fast repeated motion. Back-splattering. Meat people know how to keep it to a minimum but it is still an unavoidable part of the job. I mentioned this too. Vicky said, “You’re sick, Roberta. Is the money real?”
The fountain jets shot up and behind them in the blue sky the clouds were moving fast. The visual combination made me dizzy, and I saw the little bright spots come swimming from the sides of my eyes.
I said, “I need to sit down.”
The Turtle sat down next to me. “Tell me about the dangerous adventures of Little Debbie.”
Vicky said, “You two are perfect for each other. I can’t wait for both of you to get really high and have a conversation